Home Trials
by Ananke
Summary: Janeway and Kim explore new territories and find that even home has its downsides.
1. Default Chapter

In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit. ~Albert Schweitzer  
  
***  
  
Did you ever spend years losing yourself, then spend just one moment finding a lifeline you never dreamed you could hope for?  
  
I did. God, I did.  
  
The holodeck was open when I reached the entrance, an omen of itself. We all knew how embarassed she could be about those holo-dramas, though there probably wasn't a single crewman among us that didn't know she ran them.   
  
The holodecks were already down to general access, stripped to the crux by engineers, but the Captain had clearly requisitioned the sole intact one for a final few hours. I hesistated at going in, even though the privacy safeties were off and technically, she had little right to even be there. In an unusual feat of Command ambiguity, Admiral Paris had already stripped Janeway of Voyager's command, a surefire path to an Admiralty...they wanted her, and yesterday.   
  
I don't think she was flattered.  
  
Okay, furious. She had been given a day to bid farewell, not that there was much left to bid farewell to, and she made it a day to remember. There were parties, celebrations, talent shows, ship tours, just about everything Fleet didn't want. Kathryn Janeway showed the universe her forsaken home that day, and then disappeared into her holo-dramas.  
  
I probably shouldn't have walked in, I had no reason to walk in...if she wanted to be left alone on her ship, I guess she had earned the right. But walk in I did. I was worried. Tom and B'Elanna had already departed for Earth with Miral, Tuvok was on Vulcan, Chakotay and Seven had left to go find his sister and reintroduce 'Annika' to her aunt...the Doctor was immersed in sentiency hearings and brunches with Barclay and just about anything he could find to disconnect himself from the reality of the mess Voyager was in. He was, after all, a little part of the ship. He was also a terrified child realizing he had just stepped out of his sandbox for good.   
  
None of them were of any help to the captain.  
  
So in I walked. Its wasn't one of *those* programs, thankfully, but it was still private, even if she had left the door open.   
  
A gothic setting, again, all rustling velvet and wailing winds. Janeway wasn't in uniform, wasn't in costume either, but rather dressed in a simple combination of sweats and bare feet that seemed totally foreign to anything I remember seeing her in.  
  
As she glanced in my direction, I saw that her face was calm...no tears, but no joy either. Leaning back on her heels in front of the artificially roaring fire, she waved a hand in brief beckoning. "Its open, Ens...Lieutenent." Her tones turned ironic. "I never remember promotions I don't give. Bad habit."  
  
"Could we be expecting company?" I tried to circle around the remark. No recrimination from me, at least. She deserved that much after seven years.  
  
A bittersweet smile crossed the unmasked face momentarily. "No. I've already deleted the characters. The setting is next. Last one of mine."  
  
"You could have saved them, captain's privilege."  
  
"They were escapes, Harry. They kept me alive, halfway sane out there. I'm home. Its time to stop falling back on empty souls for comfort."  
  
"Michael?"  
  
"He was only one of them." She stood, stretching. "Weren't your parents expecting you for dinner tonight?"  
  
"My mother actually bothered you with reminders to send me?"  
  
"She is your *mother*, Lieutenent." There was real amusement in her gaze now, a profound, if innocuous delight in rubbing in my annoyance. "After seven years gone, you won't hear me compaining about my mother's cooking when I make it back to Indiana."  
  
"Its not the cooking I worry about, its the mother-henning." Somehow, I dropped the stack of padds I held, settling on the thick rugs beside her, marveling at the stark contrast between the garish holocolors and her pale skin, tired eyes.  
  
"You're young, Harry." She closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her palm across her forehead in a childish gesture of sleepiness usually left up to Naomi. "You'll appreciate it all someday."  
  
I could easily appreciate a caffeine-deprived sleepyhead when I saw one. "Let me escort you back to the station, Admiral."  
  
"I told them I'd leave Voyager in 12 hours, not a minute before. Its been eleven." Her lips pursed. "Since you aren't planning to indulge your mother...how many holovacations can you take in an hour, Lieutenent?"  
  
"Depends on whether you want a brief taste or a long drink, ma'am." Pushing the padds into a corner, I turned to face her, surprised at the relaxed informality I had fallen into, but unwilling to sacrifice it. "But why settle for artificial pleasure? Why not go home for the night?"  
  
Her smile was almost devilish, eyes widening. "I am home."  
  
"She's your ship, Admiral. Not your grave."  
  
The smile faded. "She's an empty hull, Harry. Theres nothing here but memories, and those carry just as well in the mind. I do believe its time to go."  
  
"Yeah." I agreed softly, gripping her hand before I lost the courage. "It is."  
  
We went together, then, down the empty corridors, in stripped down lifts, to her quarters first, to pick up her carryall. Nothing more, all the personal touches were gone. She didn't look back as the door swished shut, and we walked onto the bridge together. She nearly sat in the chair again, but in the end settled for clenching the hand-rest with white-knuckled hands. After a brief moment, she nodded resignation, and we turned into the lift for the final time, making the journey to the docking airlock in silence.   
  
It was just time to go. 


	2. Chapter Two

  
*  
Love is that flame that once kindled burns everything, and only the mystery and the journey remain. ~ Rumi   
*  
I had no intention of being seen in my state of exhausted confusion, not by him, nor any other member of Voyager's crew.   
  
He wasn't expected, to be simple. I had done my duty as a captain. There had been the visits to the families of my dead, the brief talks with reunited spouses, kisses to the foreheads of children who had not seen their parents in well over seven years, or never at all. I was there, the support and ballast, guiding those without family or ties back into the lives they had left behind, or new ones. I did not fail in my duty. I was there, until the last crewman stepped away from Voyager.  
  
And then, of course, one came back.  
  
Harry Kim, most of all, I expected to stay gone. He had family, decent, devoted parents, a bolstering career, friends, his entire life ahead of him. He had no reason, no reason that I could see, to return to the husk of Voyager, to the husk of his captain.  
  
Exhaustion does make one blind. So very, very blind.  
  
I felt nude, stripped, when he stepped into the holodeck. I can be informal, of course, I do not rely on uniform or silk on my own time. I reveled in the bare feet, in the simple, unflattering sweats. I also felt stripped, wearing them in front of him, for it was a habit I had firmly put away on Voyager. On Voyager, my time was the captain's time. Captains do not stride through corriders informally. Nor do we rest informally. There is always a line, uncrossed.  
  
He tore through it.  
  
Harry, dear Harry, of all of them, tore through. He did not regret the invasion, by any means. I saw it in his eyes, on his face, as the holodeck door shut. His grip did tighten on the padds he held, but there was no flinch, no abashed blush.  
  
He was no longer a boy.  
  
Contrary to common sense, it really wasn't an aspect of Harry Kim I'd taken note of before.  
  
The holographic fire emitted no real heat, no close proximation to inner warmth. I suspect we made up for it, all very involuntarily.  
  
I spoke, at that point, automatically nudging him into a safety zone, putting what I hoped was the captain's assurance into my welcome. Somehow, by the brief flicker in his eyes, I think that it was a thin veil indeed. He did step in, and in my relief came the stumble, the mistake that bared all. I nearly called the poor man Ensign.   
  
I've no doubt he has no idea of the expression that flickered across his face, the fleeting anger, annoyance. It was there, and raw. I believe I began to lose focus in that moment, began to search in the bulkheads for conversation, any conversation, to still the abrupt thundering in my soul. There were empty words, silly words, half-hearted, likely misconstrued remarks about promotions and family and duty. He responded promptly each time, watching me, eyes absorbing and diseffected.   
  
He asked me to leave Voyager with him, as he clutched the padds again, hiding their contents from my view. I wondered briefly what business he had, and realized that it was no assignment I had given. Then, on the heels of that, I realized that I was, officially, no longer his commanding officer, nor Voyager's. I didn't belong anymore.   
  
Even more surprisingly, I found that I was learning, slowly, but surely, that it didn't matter so very much.   
  
I accepted his grip, his escort. My quarters seemed hollow, cold, indifferent, and I no longer missed them, nor the many lonely nights within.   
  
The bridge was more difficult. Long ago, an age ago, it was a standing joke between Mark and I that should I ever leave Voyager for good, I would take the command chair, or my ready room chair, with me. Mark seemed to understand my connection to the ship, new as she was, and I saw in that last walk through her that Harry Kim did as well.  
  
Somehow, I had found a light in the darkness, and fate help me, I did not want to let it fade out.  
  
Space dock was empty, subdued, and our journey to the shuttle bay was unimpeded by curiosity seekers or Federation personnel, a matter I was vagually grateful for. Our shuttle was, appropriately, one Tom Paris had been overseeing the refitting of. Kim didn't miss the connection either, his face lighting up in a smile as he turned from the pilots seat to glance back at me. "Delta the Second to..."  
  
"I'm due back at Command in..." I checked my chromo half-heartedly, tiredness blurring the numbers. "Half an hour."  
  
"It takes longer than that to land in San Francisco, Admiral." He raised a brow. "You'll be late anyhow, so why not head home for the night?"  
  
"I don't have..."  
  
"You never have introduced me to the mother behind the legend. I had to let you meet mine."  
  
He was determined, I give him that, in the same gentle, no arguing permitted way Ensign Kim had always been. Captain's well being or hell. I surreendered, hiding my smile. "Take us to Indiana, Harry."  
  
"Aye, ma'am."  
  
Somehow, as we landed in the heavy Indiana snows, the heavens only seemed more beautiful from below than they had ever seemed from above. 


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: All characters herein owned by Paramount Studios and assorted other entiities. No profit made, no copyright infringement intended.  
  
*  
"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be."   
-Douglas Adams   
*  
  
I found myself watching her as the shuttle went down into her Indiana snows. She was trying, of course, to be at her command best, but the sleepiness in her eyes and slight twitch of anticipation belied it. Home sweet home, I thought, assisting her out as a house door flew open, a bustling, but not quite motherly figure flying out. "Kathryn! Good god, you finally decide to shirk those duties and its in the middle of a night storm!"  
  
"Wasn't my idea." I caught the murmered complaint, and grinned, as the other woman...her sister Phoebe, I realized...reached us and nearly smothered the Admiral.  
  
She pulled away, clinging to an arm, but turning to grasp mine. "Phoebe...Lieutenent Harry Kim. He was Operations on Voyager."  
  
"You survived her just to escort her home? You are Starfleet." Flashing what had to be a family grin, Phoebe wrung my hand. "Kathryn, do you remember the last Starfleet you brought home in the dead of winter..."  
  
"Long ago and far away." The Admiral met my head over her sisters shoulder, expression a wry grimace. "And nothing Harry wants to hear about. He does, however, express interest in Mom's apple pie."  
  
"There might be enough left." Measuring me inch by inch, the more boisterous of the Janeway duo nodded towards the warmer house. "You two have at it. Mom, as it is, is in town, riding out the storm...our generators haven't been acting so well, and you know how she hates overusing modern marvels out here. We decided we'd be more comfortable with friends. I'm sure Harry here can get operations up for tonight, though. Tomorrow you can just order her to surrender to civilization."  
  
"I wouldn't try to go that far on my worst day." The response was dry, her glance equally so as we made way to the porch. "Care to operate, Operations?"  
  
"I'd rather have a Klingon do it." Shrugging, I played along with their little skit, shutting the door behind us. "But winter makes for hard duties and self-sacrifice."  
  
"Klingon? We have a fixing wish, not a destruct wish, good man." Phoebe drawled, throwing the door open. She clearly hadn't grasped the reference to Torres, but her sister had, and we both barely hid a smile.  
  
The captain...former, I corrected myself...kept my gaze, brows raising, lips curving faintly in quick mischief. "Very good man." She agreed solemnly, attention quickly switching targets. I ignored the surprise of the moment, following her gaze. The house was old, probably borderline historic. Up to safety standards, to be sure, but strewn with the homey little touches that I had always associated with Kathryn Janeway. Of course, it was her breeding ground.   
  
Stepping over the threshold, I set her bag off to a side. "Nice home, Admiral."  
  
"Its been redecorated since my time." She walked around slowly, lifting knick knacks and pictures with uncertain fervor I remembered from my own first visit home after our return.  
  
Phoebe caught my eyes for a moment, smiling her own brand of understanding. "We haven't changed your room."  
  
"Phoebe, you make it sound like a memorial." Turning, the Admiral frowned.   
  
"It was, for the better part of your journey." The zealous cheer was subdued now, and I didn't miss the shadows under the eyes.  
  
"I don't particularily want to talk about that." A quick glance in my direction. "And I'm sure Harry doesn't either."  
  
Phoebe accepted the warning quickly, turning back to face me. "Thanks for bringing her home, Lieutenent. She would've curled up in a Jeffries Tube and died before coming alone. The long past can be very frightening for your former captain." Brushing away comment, she pulled her gloves back on. "Kathryn, I'm heading back to town. Mother is asleep by now, but coming up to see her tomorrow wouldn't be a bad idea. She's got seven years worth of longing in her heart for you to assuage."  
  
"It wasn't my fault I was stranded across the galaxy..." My 'former captain' shook her head, lips curving in a smile. "You won't pull me into that old blame trap. Go on, go on, theres no need to share the Janeway insanity with the sane."  
  
Watching as Phoebe raced down the walkway and towards the waiting hovercraft, I shrugged. "She seems like a nice enough person."  
  
"She's a hideous example of a sister, Mister Kim." Janeway chuckled, shedding her coat and kneeling to examine the unlit fireplace. "Loves sinking her heels into my dignity and shoving it right out the nearest window. I've missed it, actually. The leveling was always good for me. Although...Tuvok did it well enough on Voyager, and Chakotay."  
  
"You haven't spoken to them lately, have you?" Just how much isolating had she been doing to herself? None of us had really been in close contact in the past few weeks, but Tuvok and Chakotay...  
  
"Tuvok is with his wife and family on Vulcan. I have no right nor any desire to break their privacy, not after what that original mission has cost all of them. Chakotay...he and Seven have been...busy, he's helping her reintegrate into life within the Federation, on her own soil..."  
  
"It hurts, doesn't it?" 


	4. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: All characters herein owned by Paramount Studios and various other entities. No profit made, no copyright infringement intended.  
  
***  
  
"Hurts, doesn't it?"   
  
At first I took the remark as benign, even hurtful, but a quick glance up dismissed that idea. His eyes were darker than usual, obsidian pools in a frost-paled face, and tired, injured. I do believe I saw Seven in them momentarily. I forced my aching knees to bend, standing, shaking off the informality of home. "Lieutenent, you've been drinking, and not synthenol."  
  
His lips quirked upward, another trait no doubt picked up from Tom Paris and culled for all its worth. "I haven't, Admiral. My job is to take care of you and I couldn't do that drunk..."  
  
"You're...of course." I sat then, temples throbbing. "I won't go willingly to Command, so Command assigns an observer to me. I should have expected it. Thank you, Mr. Kim, but your duties are discharged. Go home. Go eat dinner with your family, its probably what you wanted all along. Damn Fleet."  
  
"Admiral." His voice was alarmed, more clear, eyes worried as he knelt before me. "Fleet didn't assign me, I wouldn't go behind your back like that...listen, I just wanted to make sure you were taken care of, I wanted..."  
  
"Me?" I had been waiting hours to say it, pat, since that first moment in the holodeck. He was so very, very earnest, and so very *damned* obvious, it was catching passion. Far too catching. Torn between skepticism at his reassurance and annoyance at my own thoughts, I moved to stand, brushing past him, too closely for comfort.   
  
"That's...Admiral!"   
  
That's ridiculous? Surely not, Mister Kim. Weren't you the one watching me through lidded eyes on that holodeck, brushing fingertips against mine at the console in the shuttle, providing lingering support in stepping onto home soil? Biting the remarks back savagely, I knelt to light the fire again, fingers shakily striking the matches. Damn...  
  
"Let me do that, already, before you burn yourself." He knelt as well, snatching the matchbox away, shoulders knitting with tension as he stirred the embers.  
  
"Harry." Falling back on my heels, I rubbed at my forehead, trying to keep my tones even. "Why don't you just go home?"  
  
"Because I'm finding out that I'm at least half as stubborn as you, and if I'm drunk, you're exhausted. Neither is good for travel or solitude."  
  
"You'll never get the heating up tonight. We can go to San Francisco, take the apartments Starfleet made ready..."  
  
"I thought you didn't want to go to Command." He looked up, grimly. "The fire will warm the living room enough for the rest of the night, if you know where blankets and pillows are, we'll be comfortable enough."  
  
Oh, would we? Standing again, I squared off against him. "I will. You leave. I rarely accept being anyone's pet basket case, Lieutenent, and most certainly never the basket case of someone with far more important places to be."  
  
"This isn't Voyager, Admiral." His gaze was intense, unshy for once, free of seven years suppression. "And I'm not taking your orders."  
  
"Thats very brave. Its also very insubordinate."  
  
"And you all thought I could never wear it well." The words were soft, quiet, barely captured. His hand reached out to take the other matchbook, lingering on my fingers, eyes reflecting thoughtful distance. His touch, the bare friction applied, the smooth massaging, was anything but.  
  
"You're drunk. I want you to go, Harry. I won't make it an order, if I did, I might end up keel-hauling you. As a friend, I'm asking. Go home. Go see Paris, Torres, Miral. Hell, go see Seven. Just go. I don't want you here."  
  
"That's what we were talking about." His head dipped in agreement. "Seven. Chakotay too. You haven't talked it out much, have you? Even walked out on your mandated counseling sessions."  
  
"I wasn't in the mood for empathic and emphatic concern."  
  
"Then they offered you the Trill, Dax. You refused her too. Official note in your records on that, right? Refused psychological treatment."  
  
"They still made me an Admiral." I strove to find a pattern to the random interrogation, somehow feeling, very certainly, and horridly, that he wasn't drunk after all. He wasn't drunk, but didn't resemble my Ensign too much either.  
  
"Oh. Yeah. They made you Admiral. Best Christmas present ever, wasn't it?"   
  
"Harry." I forced his grip from mine, instead placing my own hand on his shoulder in an automatic bid of concern. "What is it you want from me?"  
  
"You." He shrugged it off. "Just you. Seven years worth of wanting you. You're right, I should go see Paris. He's very good with lost causes and stupid ideas." Straightening, he glanced around. "I got you home. Do yourself a favor and don't stay here alone. You'd be surprised at how brutal backlogged angst can be. Take care, Admiral."  
  
"Lieutenent." Grabbing my jacket again, I trailed him too the porch. "Are you in flying condition?"  
  
"I'm not drunk, I told you."  
  
"Thats not what I asked."  
  
"Ma'am." His gaze was magnanimous. "Respectfully, its nothing."  
  
Like Hell in an Indiana winter it was. Watching as he lifted the shuttle into the air, I found myself wondering if I would ever really understand any of them, or they me. Somehow, I thought not. It probably wouldn't validate the pain getting to that level of enlightenment would require.  
  
Hell's Bells, Katie did, you done it again, I thought tiredly, padding inside, past the warm fire, into the cold kitchen. It was shaping up to be a coffee night. A very, very, lonely coffee night.  
  
***  
  
Your Silence Is Your Song- Steve Winwood  
  
Close your eyes and you'll do very well  
No more lies and no more fairy tales  
Hanging out, out on the street  
You have no place left to go  
If the whole world passes you by  
Don't you cry   
Close your eyes and don't feel anything  
Lullabies are all that I will sing  
Stay right here, wait for the night  
Let it come down over you  
You've seen all you wanted to see  
Stay with me   
  
When there's no more right from wrong  
You still have the night so long  
And the silence is your song  
And you know where you belong   
Close your eyes, the white owl's on the wing  
Hear her cries, and take the sleep she brings  
When the clouds fill up the sky   
And the shadows hide the moon  
Sleep will give you all that is left -  
Emptiness 


	5. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: All characters owned by Paramount Studios and various other entities, no profit made, no copyright infringement intended.  
  
*  
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life...it goes on.-Robert Frost  
*  
  
I felt ugly as I left you back there, in a winter storm. Really, unofficerly ugly. Really, unHarry ugly.  
  
It only went to prove how much power you still held over me, even after seven years and a quick  
down-slide into flagrant disallusionment and slothfulness. Oh, you saw that too. It was in your eyes, on  
your face, in the perplexed little furrowing of your brow as you faced off against me on your home  
ground.   
  
What on Earth had made your Ensign go mad as a bat out of hell? The words were probably poised to  
break free, but you pursed your lips instead, head angling upward in that obliviously puzzled, half-wan  
way you have. There were tears in your eyes, tears I know you didn't notice, or they wouldn't have been  
there long enough to have been noticed by a second party. The snow flurries were sifting through your  
hair, the wind whipping your face into a stark, dead whiteness, but your gaze...somehow, those tears  
failed to freeze. When did I start analyzing things like that about you? A day ago, a month ago, a year  
ago?  
  
I don't know. I've tried to figure it out, naturally, seven years of your driving command put that unhealthy  
level of obsession for answers in me. It hasn't worked. That can be frustrating, puts my patience out the  
window. I don't feel very efficient anymore, not very bright. Fleet uses my designs, with modifications,  
and offers assignments, with assistants, but I know my focus is off. None of them are really tactless  
enough to say as much. I'm the kid, the whiz Ensign who lived and died in hell, and made it back,  
probably less scarred than any of you. Give him time, I bet they say, he's adjusting. His old shine will  
come back.   
  
Not if I keep rubbing it in your ashes.  
  
My words may seem harsh, but I really didn't want to hurt you. Not then, and not now.   
  
Hurt you, never. Touch you...  
  
I asked Tom once, watching him rock Miral to the tune of an old 20th century lullaby, how your hand felt  
when it had caressed his shoulder so often at conn, and if it had felt any different in some other, more  
private place. Was there a captain's touch, then a Janeway touch, or were both the same? Did the  
attraction stem from the rank or the woman to him?  
  
Paris met my gaze momentarily, shocked at my perception...best fuck on the ship, Tom Paris, and almost  
totally discreet in the captain's case. But I knew him, too well. He finally nodded slowly. "You're bound to  
find out the hard way, aren't you, Harry?" Then, turning, he motioned to Miral, now on the floor, gripping  
his feet with tiny, baby hands. "I never would've had this with her. You won't. She'll sell heaven to you for  
the night, but its only fragmentary. Not her fault, of course, she's an Admiral's brat, Starfleet to the soles  
of her tenacious feet. She doesn't know any other way, doesn't have enough of my stupidity to go find it.  
I'm telling you, leave her alone. She's no worse for it, and you'll be the better."  
  
I told him then how I had known, about the ridiculously trite midnight errand from the Doctor on Voyager,  
how I had paused in the corridor, hidden from view by the dim lighting and shadowy corner. My intention  
was to com you first, give you time to awaken, put on your robe, your captain's mask, for I knew how  
important such details were to you. My fingers rested on the com badge, but didn't press. As I glanced  
up, he came out of your quarters, wearing his typical night attire-compliments of B'Elanna-and a robe,  
hair scraped into the neatly mandated Fleet style. Too neat, and his movements, too clipped. He was at a  
dead run, pacing in snails time. There was a haunted look, too, warring with the pleasure on his face. You  
appeared in the doorway briefly, believing the corridor empty. I won't call the look on your face  
self-satisfied, though it was. I don't know if you felt guilt or not, I'm not sure I want you to tell me. You  
did put on a good show as I stepped from the shadows, advancing instead of retreating. It wasn't  
stupidity, it was fury. I was seeing B'Elanna and her unborn child when I met you eye to eye. You flinched  
when your gaze finally caught me, paled, grasped the neck of your gown with white-knuckled fingers. I  
could see your mind racing...how much had I seen, had I seen Tom, was I still naive enough to dismiss  
it...what had you done?  
  
I never did give you an answer to those questions, merely handing you the padd, walking away. I didn't  
trust myself to speak, to linger. I had wanted to fuck you for a good long while, but then I wanted to  
strangle you. Neither was acceptable when it came to the captain, but the first was Paris' territory. He  
never did like acceptability.  
  
Even after all the time and distance we've put between that night and this one, Tom is still suffering for  
it. His clenched knuckles were as white-knuckled as yours had been by the time I finished my story, his  
face drawn, eyes focused on some distant hell. He finally shook off the abyss, lifting Miral and gently  
cupping her tiny head in his palm, an innocent touch, unspoiled by past sins. His voice was still raw. "I'm  
not going to excuse it, or try to explain it. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't angry. I shouldn't even have been  
lonely, not with B'elanna and my child in that bed beside me. I was just...drawn, Harry. Just like you."  
  
"You had a hell of a lot to lose." I pointed out.  
  
"You don't have a hell of a lot to gain."  
* 


	6. Chapter Six

  
  
*  
I'm going to speak my mind because I have nothing to lose.-S.I. Hayakawa  
*  
Stick and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me...  
  
Tuvok and I once discussed that old adage, Lieutenant. I favored taking it literally, believing very deeply in the amazing and often ignoble ability of the human mind to shut out that which discomforts, but his Vulcan wisdom...or sheer Vulcan arrogance...led him to argue the opposite. Broken bones are a small price to pay, merely physical inconvienence, but words...the right combination of words can crush any soul. Except a Vulcan's, of course.  
  
I'm no Vulcan.  
I'll cut to the point, no point in doing otherwise. Was the sex good?  
Of course, but thats not what we're getting at. It was a mistake. Trite enough phrase, one I'm sure Tom has used more than once. With B'Elanna, perhaps, or, perhaps she doesn't know of any of them. The little mistakes, you understand.   
It was a rather big mistake. He was truthful, at least, in saying that he wasn't drunk. I must argue about the anger refuttal, however. Tom was angry, has always been angry...with Janeway, for reasons I'm not altogether certain even he understands. He began the evening fighting Janeway and ended up sleeping with Kathryn. Not exactly in his flight plan, or so he told me. His tones were arrogant as he spoke, those tones you probably remember very well from the early days. Hips cocked, eyes flashing, he faced me, daring dismissal, wanting shame. Shame, at least, was cleansing. I didn't give it to him.  
You say that I played the part well, the horrified captain, the heroine in the throes of self-bombardment. I did act, and thank the gods, well, for otherwise you would have seen your infallable commander curled in the corrider like a rag doll. I didn't give him shame, and didn't give you humiliation.   
Torres has no idea, should never have any idea, not necessarily because I fear for my neck, for I do, but because she's easily hurt, emotionally crushed, for all that Klingon in her. She has a child, and a man who loves her more than he loves himself, and a newfound father...lets not spoil one fairy tale, now, Harry. Leave them be. Hurt me if you must, I can withstand.  
Tom. It figures that the one topic we find in common has to be the one neither of us cares to dwell on.   
Tom Paris is broken. He was broken long before Caldak Prime and New Zealand, has been since. Torres is patching him up slowly, but...Tom is still broken.  
I helped break him.  
I remember his childhood, vividly, as if he had been my own. There were rough times, but Owen Paris was proud of him, adored him, at least in the early years. It was the later years, the adolescent years, that killed the relationship. The adolescent years and us.  
Owen was a lonely drunk. You won't hear that terminology often in this age of synthenol, hypos, and counseling, but there you have it. I won't comment on Mrs. Paris, I really knew very little of the woman, and my memories of her are vague. I could say she was cold, but it could be perception. Perhaps she was an angel and I needed the coldness for excuse. Either way, Owen and she didn't meet standards. Then again, neither did Owen and I.   
Oh, it was never a love relationship, never romantic, never actually sexual. I had my standards, even that young, and they hadn't gone to hell in a handbasket yet. It was platonic, at least on my side, but...Owen was a lonely drunk. We kept late office hours in those days, at Starfleet Command, working alone well into the witching hour. Usually Tom was at home with Mrs. Paris or the help, I rarely saw him around the office. He was rambunctious, Owen was jittery. That night he was there, his mother had left for Risa, no one to watch him. Wide-eyed, he ran circles around the outer offices, exploring. I kept a constant ear out, but I do believe Owen actually managed to completely forget about him. Around the fourth glass of Hr'lah he put away the paperwork and kissed me. I fought...valiently, yes, Harry, but gently, he was so loaded a single blow was liable to send him sprawling...and true to my luck, we ended up in an undignified heap on the floor, Owen still pawing. Never let Tom tell you his prowess isn't genetic.   
Tom came in, and began screaming. Half-panicing myself, I shoved Owen to the side, in his pitiful sotted heap, and reached for the kid, automatic reassurance protocal kicking in. Tom scratched at my face, my neck, my eyes. I barely restrained him, and only after he had finally collapsed in a heap in my arms, sobbing, did I look over to his father. Owen merely looked away.  
I later found out that Mrs. Paris wasn't vacationing, she was separating by cause of adultery, and had left Tom behind. Already stricken half-senseless by solitary life with a man he barely knew and certainly didn't comprehend, Tom began cracking. The marriage eventually came back together, out of business or pleasure, I have no idea, but Tom was never the same. He had no way of understanding what had happened that night-only what he thought he saw-and I suppose I've always been fixated in his mind's eyes as 'the other woman'. Had Owen had his way, I would have been just that, not just the mistaken label.  
Tom Paris hated me, still hates me, on levels I know neither of us can hope to fully grasp.  
That night was a mistake. It was also his right, his due, his retribution...and I understand. It was mine as well.  



	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: All characters herein owned by Paramount Studios and various other entities. No profit made, no copyright infringement intended.  
*  
Tomorrow do thy worst, I have lived today.- John Dryden  
*  
Broken. It seems to be the word we keep coming back to.   
She was drained, exhausted, after telling me of Owen Paris, and in the pensive silence that followed, the missing pieces of the puzzle I considered my best friend finally fell together. There had always been a sort of friction between the captain and Paris, the kind of desperate comradeship that you only find in people trying not to rip each others throats out. She had been laughing with him, flirting with him, trying not to fight with him for seven years, and it leaked through that night.   
The conversation was mostly one-sided afterward, her anxious, dry ramblings of new assignments and responsibilities and, we both knew, just about anything to fill the emptiness. Somewhere around the fourth glass of wine, she lifted the fluted glass, expecting me to ask, and I did. "Old nobility?"  
"Picard." Her head inclined fractionally, gravely. "The most noble. I know the man, or knew him, before the Delta Quadrant. Back then, he was very noble, very...lonely."  
"And now?"  
"A hell of a lot lonelier." Looking lost, she sat the glass down untouched. "Its a command issue."  
I almost laughed at that, but the truth of the faintly apathetic remark sobered me. "Maybe you two should get together."  
"He's not my type." Leaning forward on the mass of cushions we had spread out, she smiled slowly.   
I felt my skin prickle. "You know, Seven always tried to kiss me by the time I reached the fourth glass of anything."  
"Chakotay doesn't drink." Her tones were wry. "Poor Borg mine."  
"I think..." An increasingly difficult task... "I think she'll be fine."  
"My God, Lieutenent, you got me drunk." She seemed fascinated by the accomplishment, and even more fascinated by my chest, trailing elegant fingers.  
Struggling to sit up and fight back the drowsiness, I grasped her palms, turning then downward to rest on the floor. "Admiral, you're drunk. You need..."  
You. I read the word before it left her lips, and the fact that it came silently made little difference. Grimacing, I grasped her arm, pushing her back gently enough to give us both space. Leaning back on her heels, she finally seemed to clear up, shoulders stiffening. "My apologies. I need a cold...snow...shower. I'll be out on the porch. Cut the lights when you go to bed, will you?"  
"Admiral..."  
"Harry." Janeway glanced down at me as she tugged a blanket around her shoulders. "I never accept a no twice after Picard vintage. Don't...just, lets don't."  
She did come back in eventually, near midnight, long after I had dimmed the lights. even with the wind wailing, she tried to be quiet, tip-toeing out of boots and overclothes, sliding under the blankets gracefully. Shifting only slightly, I caught her eyes momentarily, and she accepted the invitation offered, curling into my side. We slept, peacefully.  
I followed her to Starfleet Command the next day, her first trip there since that last evening on Voyager. It was business as usual, she wore her best command face as we walked through the halls, smiled and laughed and shook anxious palms and gracefully eluded overly zealous admirers and detractors. It wasn't until we began the walk off campus that the strain began to show in the stiffness of her posture, the clenching of her hands, the spare silence. There was talk already, we had been holed up together in Indiana when I wasn't visiting Paris or she her mother. Our joint visit was, I realized, her tentative testing of the waters...reactions now could very well determine just how far she was willing to take the relationship we were stumbling into. I wasn't sure I liked her methods, or the implications of her discomfort.  
We had managed to pace a few meters, watching the sunset, when I saw Tom by the edge of the bay, strolling Miral. He was waiting, clearly, for us to pass, and while I was sure it would cost me something later, my trust in his emotions wasn't very high at the time. I took her elbow, pushed her lightly in the opposite direction, and her gaze lifted from the ground, catching him. She stopped then, shaking her head, removing my hand gently, but firmly. "I have to go talk to him, Harry, or he'll never back off. Why don't you wait here?"  
I did, biting back my doubts, turning the other way to grant privacy. The wind, though, carried most of the conversation, their tones, rising and falling.  
"Captain, Admiral." Tom's tones were urgent, loud, indignant at first, then falling, reasoning. "You know this is destroying Harry...how can you put him into this...hell, your life...knowing all that baggage you'll tie to him? He thinks he's found heaven, sure, but..."  
"Its his life, Tom. My life. Not yours." I could read the restrained frustration in her gentle rubuttal, could imagine her furrowed brows.  
Turning, I winced and forced myself not to intrude as he caught me her the shoulders abruptly, painfully, pulled her back, blue eyes flickering wuth frustration. Tightening one hand on a thin shoulder, he jerked the other up swiftly, clutching at her collar, fingers prying loose the pips, scattering them to the snow. Stepping away, he bowed, tones half-mocking, half-subdued. "What are you without them? Is there anything left to give him? No, I don't think so. Just leave him alone, before you destroy him."  
"I can't do that, Tom." Yes, there was desperation there, and pity. "Destroy him? Do you think I'm in this...relationship...out of some godforsaken deception of greed? I care for him."  
"Like you loved my father? Chakotay? Michael? Jaffen? And any other number of men, real or otherwise?" Shaking his head, he faced me again, meeting my eyes over her head, the anger unretreating. Finally, after watching her bend to retrieve the pips, Tom turned back to Miral, pushing the stroller away. He never looked back at us. 


End file.
